In the Long Run

Barack Obama’s surge in popularity has given rise to some interesting internet articles and websites, two of which I found quite entertaining this week. Check out this article containing an Encyclopedia Baracktannica, with some witty, and some inane, definitions using Obama’s name, or corrupted versions of the same. Then there is the website, barackobamaisyournewbicycle.com, which I find hilariously clever in its understated simplicity.

I began wistfully thinking of my former visions of internet popularity, with mobs of adoring, sycophantic fans clamoring incessantly for my intelligent, pointed, and entertaining posts. I decided I need some Barackstar-type hype.

So meet my new persona: The Cyppster. My female devotees will be called the Cyppster Sisters, and the males will be members of Cyppy’s Posse. Those who prefer a non-gender-identifying term can be called “dis-cypples”.

They will eagerly await posts detailing the mediocri-cyppy of my life, which of course include no gos-cyppy, or heaven forbid, hypocri-cyppy, just straight talk detailing cyppy-isms with accura-cyppy. The Cyppster will be known far and wide for her gracious diploma-cyppy, her love of democra-cyppy, and her unflinching advoca-cyppy of pickleball.

In order to hasten my popularity in this in-cyppy-ent stage, I have prepared the following statements, which fall under the heading:

Cyppy is Your New I-Pod

Cyppy let you beat her at pickleball.

Cyppy did not complain when your annoying dogs barked all night long.

Cyppy loaned you her boa.

Cyppy changed her doorbell chime just for you.

Cyppy smiled indulgently at you even when you made numerous grammatical errors.

Cyppy put away your bike for you after spinning class.

Cyppy knew without asking the sex of your cute, but bald baby.

Cyppy let you play Halo in her basement for eight hours straight.

Cyppy dressed up in a costume for your fund-raising event.

Cyppy came to your home party.

Cyppy went on a chocolate fast with you.

Cyppy bought you a fashionable briefcase online.

Cyppy remembered your name.

Cyppy treated you to an afternoon of ice skating.

Cyppy ran a mile with you.

If all goes well, I may be running for president in 2012. Perhaps I’d do quite well in Mississippi.

For the past two of weeks I’ve conducted fitness assessments for the new city employee wellness program. The city is offering attractive incentives, such as cash bonuses and paid days off, for employees who meet their goals in the program. There has been great interest in the new plan, which was implemented to improve employees’ health and morale, and thereby decrease absenteeism, illnesses, injuries and associated expenses.

As a fitness specialist, I help the employees set goals which are reasonable and attainable. As I talked to them, most of the employees shared their enthusiasm for the program and commented that they’d do almost anything to get their paid days off. A couple of them went so far as to suggest that they should “sandbag” the current tests in order to show improvement at the 6-month re-testing date, and earn the incentive. Only a few of my testees cared more about the healthful benefits of the program than they did the monetary rewards.

I guess I should not be surprised that most of these people were more concerned about money than they seemed to be concerned about their health. Money, pleasure, and comfort are big motivators. And that extends to more than just issues of health.

I ponder why we are sometimes motivated to do the right thing for the wrong reason. Or, if it’s not for the wrong reason, it’s for a less worthy reason than what could readily be labeled as the “right” reason. Shouldn’t we be motivated to do the right thing for the right reason? Are human frailties and character flaws to blame? Do we naturally gravitate toward selfishness and self-servedness? Have financial gain, leisure, and entertainment become the prime motivational influences of our society?

I’ll be the first to admit that I have done many things, and even good things, for the wrong reason. But I hope that as my understanding of life experiences and its nuances increases, so will my ability to live a life motivated by altruism, and tempered only by morally justifiable egoism.

Last night I ran into a young man whom I had known quite well several years ago, but with whom I had not kept in touch. I had met his wife briefly a couple of years ago, but since I could not remember her name, I decided to focus my attention on their baby.

The child, who had a round, cherubic face, rosy cheeks, and wisps of blonde hair, was dressed in a green sleeper, and wrapped in a multi-colored blanket. I could not be sure whether the baby was a boy or girl.

Knowing the frustration my daughter-in-law feels when, despite dressing my granddaughter in frilly, pink outfits, and gluing little bows in her hair, The Little Princess is called a boy, I thought I’d diplomatically get this mother to reveal the child’s gender, without my having to bluntly ask.

“So how old is your baby?” I politely inquired, hopeful that the answer would come in complete sentence form, beginning with the all-important identifying pronoun “He” or “She”.

“Three months,” Mother politely replied. “Ah…so sweet!” I gushed, only momentarily stymied while inwardly formulating my next question, which I posed cunningly to the baby [itself]:

“And what’s your name, you little cutie?” I was confident the mother would immediately respond with the name that would allow me to continue the conversation and correctly refer to the child as a boy or girl, as if I’d known all along.

“Lorimer," Mother announced proudly. OK, sounds like a boy name, I thought, but it’s trendy to give daughters what have been traditional boys’ names, so I am not really sure still. “I don’t believe I’ve heard that name before. Is it a family name?” I ventured. Surely Lorimer’s mother would have to call her child “him” or “her”, or say “he” or “she”, sooner or later.

“It’s the name of the man who married us,” Mother divulged.

“Oh, I see!” I nodded, even though I really didn’t see it at all. “And…was that his first name? Or last name….?” Come on, Mother, give me something to work with here!

“His last name,” Mother replied. “We liked the man, and we liked the name, so that’s what we decided to name the baby.”

Argggh! I gave up. “Lorimer, you are such a cute little baby,” I cooed. “Goochie, goochie goo”.….whether you’re a boy or a girl.

It seemed strange to me, when, as a child, I heard some old recording artist lilting a song from my Dad’s version of the Top 40: “Beautiful, beautiful brown eyes. I’ll never love blue eyes again.” I remember thinking, as only a very egocentric (blue-eyed child) can think, “That’s weird. Blue eyes are the best color. Why would anyone like brown eyes over blue?!”

Now I’ve learned that I’m the product of a genetic mutation. That finding conjures up visions of white lab-coated mad scientists with unkempt hair and coke-bottle glasses stirring bubbling concoctions in test-tubes over a Bunsen burner, that transform normal, respectable people into those savage monsters that Will Smith battles in I Am Legend. My poor children. I’ve passed on this apparent aberration to three of them. Don’t be ashamed—it’s not your fault!

We’re victims. And now that the news is out, that blue-eyed people are a….dare I say it again…[shudder, wince]…a mutation, no doubt we will be subjected to unfair discrimination and persecution, when previously we enjoyed some degree of acceptance in society. Certainly the government should design a program to rectify this situation. At the very least, maybe our Congressmen should earmark funds to provide us with colored contacts.

Until then, perhaps I'll go Hollywood chic and keep my sunglasses on over my baby blues.